Warhammer - Knight Errant

by Anthony Reynolds

  His sister...

  He w as draw n further into the courtyard. Stables and barracks, long abandoned, lay in disrepair along the inside of the southern walls, but it w as tow ards the main keep that he found himself walking. He looked down at the w ater lilies that clogged the circular fountain in the centre of the courtyard. Water overflowed down the sides of a stone grail carved atop a pedestal in the centre of the pool. It clearly tapped into a natural spring beneath the ground, but the effect w as magical nonetheless.

  Climbing a set of w ide stone steps, he entered the lonely, lifeless keep. He walked, like a ghost, through halls filled with cobw ebs and dust. The interior had been gutted by fire, and no evidence of furniture or paintings hanging upon the walls remained.

  Draw n on inexorably, he climbed up a grand, spiralling staircase, to the top floor, and then he w alked down a long passageway, passing countless empty, dim rooms and lifeless, cold bedchambers.

  At last, he came to an archw ay, and there, he halted. He was sweating though the air w as chill. The door set into the archway was intact, and w as drawn almost fully shut.

  Not know ing what to expect beyond the doorway, and his heart beating w ildly, Calard pushed the door open. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges, and swung w ide. Ducking his head, he entered the room.

  It w as dark, but he could see that the fires that had ravaged the rest of the castle had barely touched this room. Arched windows covered the north wall, wooden shutters rattling in the howling w ind. A large bed w as set in the middle of the room, its mattress sunken and its pillows moth-eaten and covered in mildew. A chamber pot sat in the corner of the room, and a small chest sat against the wall.

  Turning around, his heart lurched as he saw movement in the shadows. His sword hissed from its scabbard, and he saw a flash of metal in the gloom.

  'Who goes?' he asked, his voice sounding too loud in his ears as it broke the silence.

  There was no response.

  The w ind howled through the castle, sounding like the moaning of a tortured spirit.

  Stepping forw ard, he saw movement in the gloom once again. A bead of sw eat ran dow n his back, and he swallowed heavily.

  Did restless spirits of the dead haunt the place? He took another step forwards, and then stopped short.

  Against the far w all, hidden in shadow, was a tall mirror. It had a long crack running dow n its surface, but it had been his ow n reflection that he had seen. He let a deep breath that he did not realise he had been holding. You fool, he thought.

  Beneath the mirror w as a vanity chest and a small, three-legged stool topped with a moth-eaten velvet cushion. Perhaps the room had belonged to a daughter of the lord of the castle.

  Calard, someone w hispered in his ear, making his hackles rise. He swung around, his sw ord raised. There was nothing there. The room w as empty.

  Calard, said the voice again, and he spun once more, eyes flicking around the room.

  The only movement came from the single loose shutter that w as rattling in the wind.

  There is nothing here, Calard thought. You are imagining things. He moved tow ards the w indow to close the banging shutter, for it was unnerving him. Sheathing his sw ord, he leant out of the w indow, reaching for the shutter. It caught the wind just as his fingers touched it, and whipped open out of reach, slamming noisily against the stone outer w all. He cursed and glanced down.

  This is where she fell, said the voice in his mind.

  A w ave of vertigo w ashed over him, and his breath caught in his throat. He pulled himself aw ay from the window quickly. Was he losing his mind? He shook his head, as if trying to shake it free of some enchantment. He would ride aw ay from this place and forget it.

  'Calard,' said a voice behind him, and he froze. This was no w hisper of the wind, but a voice spoken from a living, human throat.

  He spun around, ripping his sword from his scabbard once more.

  The pale figure of a w oman surrounded in shimmering w hite light w as standing in the doorw ay. It is a restless spirit, he thought, reeling backw ards.

  'I am no spirit,' said the woman as she glided forwards into the room. The voice was hauntingly familiar, yet not. The halo of light surrounding her seemed to flicker and disappear, and he saw that she was flesh and blood. Had the halo merely been a trick of the light?

  She w as as delicate as a flow er, little larger than a child, and wore a w hite flowing dress made of a material that shimmered like water. It w as held tight around her petite body, billow ing below her tightly corseted waist in flowing waves that trailed behind her. The sleeves of the dress were long and tapered to points that w ere fixed to a pair of silver rings that the woman w ore, one around each of her slender index fingers.

  Her face w as obscured by the gloom, but he could see that her hair w as long and dark, and that she w ore a tiara of silver. A silver necklace in the shape of a fleur-delys shimmered against her skin, and Calard's breath caught in his chest.

  'A damsel of the Lady,' he breathed in aw e, dropping to his knees in respect. Never had he encountered one of the esteemed handmaidens of the Lady. They were priestesses and protectors, blessed by the Lady herself. Seers and augurs of great pow er, many of them had been granted the gift of future sight, and w ere among the most respected of the king's advisors. Mistresses of fey, mystical powers, they commanded the forces of nature, and w ere the devout protectors of the sacred places of Bretonnia.

  'That w indow is where she fell to her death,' said the damsel, her voice fey and distant. With her long dress trailing across the flagstones of the floor, she seemed to glide forw ard like an apparition.

  Calard could see her face now , and he stared at her in confused awe. Her face was heart-shaped and youthful, w ith high cheekbones and a pointed chin, and her eyes w ere large and striking. Her skin w as smooth and pale, and make-up had been applied sparingly and artfully around her eyes. Those eyes were wide, and seemed to float around the room, as if the damsel w as following the movements of things that Calard could not see.

  'She stood at the w indow. Blood. There was so much blood,' breathed the damsel.

  She w as looking at her hands in horror, as if she could see blood on them too, though they w ere pale and clean. 'She w as ashamed, so ashamed. She threw herself from the w indow.' The damsel smiled suddenly, her face lighting up w ith childlike pleasure. 'For a moment, it felt like she was flying.' Then the smile dropped from her face, and she looked sad, so infinitely sad that Calard w anted to stand up and go to her, to hold her and give her comfort. 'And then... she died. Like a w hisper in the w ind, she was gone.'

  Calard stared at her in confusion. Had she not been a damsel of the Lady, he would have assumed she w as touched in the head. She was so familiar, too, that it felt like he knew her, just as he felt that he knew this place.

  'Who?' he asked at last, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  The damsel looked at him, and he was jolted by the sheer depths of power he saw in her grey-blue eyes.

  'Our mother,' breathed his tw in sister, the damsel Anara.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BERTELIS GLANCED SIDEWAYS at Anara, his eyes guarded. That she was Calard's tw in was obvious, for the similarities between them were striking; they shared the same eyes and the same colouring. She was short and petite where Calard was broad and strong, but even small gestures betrayed the kinship between them: the way she unconsciously brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, and the way they seemed to mirror each other's movements.

  This was his sister, too, he reminded himself, his half-sister, as closely related to him as Calard w as. Of course he had heard his brother speak of Anara much w hen they w ere children, and though he had spoken of her less as the years passed, he knew that she had never been far from his mind. He heard him call out her name in his sleep, and though in the last few years he would not be draw n into conversation regarding his mysterious tw in, he knew that Calard thought of her often, and had long dreamed of finding her.

&nb
sp; She is not dead, he remembered Calard saying once. Anara had been missing for years, but he w ould fiercely rebuke anyone that suggested he let her go. I w ould know it if she had been claimed by Morr, Calard had said, bristling in anger. Bertelis had long believed that it w as a forlorn hope that Calard clung to, to be reunited w ith Anara, but here she w as in the flesh.

  This, however, was not the carefree child that Calard had w istfully spoken of. She w as clearly touched by the fey, and everything about her resonated w ith otherw orldliness. She spoke in a soft, distant voice, and her eyes often grew unfocused. Her movements w ere calm and full of grace, as if time slowed in her presence.

  Bertelis w as certain that she was mad, but he had no doubt of her pow er.

  She seemed to radiate an elemental strength that Bertelis found unnerving.

  Strangely, it reminded him of a journey he had made once as a boy, to the famed port-city of L'Anguille in the north. He had stood upon a high cliff and stared out across the endless, glittering ocean depths. There had been no wind that day, and the deep green of the sea w as sublimely beautiful, calm and tranquil. The following day a storm had blow n in, and the ocean had turned into a raging tyrant, destructive and aw esome in its strength. Although it had been serene and comforting the day before, now it smashed against the cliffs with such power that it made Bertelis feel insignificant and small.

  It had frightened him then, and this was the sense that he got from Anara. She w as like the sea becalmed, serene, beautiful and peaceful, but beneath the surface, deep w ithin, Bertelis sensed that there lay a similar power to that of the sea: destructive, dangerous, and somehow ageless.

  As if sensing his eyes upon her, the damsel turned towards him. It felt as though her gaze pierced his soul, seeing every shameful act and hidden secret, and he quickly dropped his gaze, his face paling.

  Clearing his throat, he moved stiffly aw ay. That she was devoted to Bretonnia and the Lady w as w ithout doubt. She w as a damsel of the Lady, and hence was one of Bretonnia's most fervent servants, but she made him feel uneasy and more than a little fearful.

  A shiver ran dow n his spine, and he moved aw ay from the others. In the distance, he w atched, as a pair of yeoman attempted to catch the w hite horse they had seen earlier, running on the field beyond the castle. They were not having any success; indeed, the horse seemed to be toying w ith them, riding close to their ropes before darting just out of reach as they tried to throw the loops over its broad neck.

  Other yeomen w ere laughing at them, shouting jibes and taunts tow ards the men w ho w ere getting increasingly frustrated. Bertelis rebuked them harshly, and they fell silent.

  ANARA FELT A tw inge of sadness as she recognised Bertelis's discomfort, but she repressed it instantly. She had come, as her increasingly vivid dream-visions had urged her. It had taken her three w eeks to journey here, and for an hour she had paced the halls of the burnt out castle, remembering, before her tw in had arrived.

  She had know n that he would. In the scheme of things to come, the unease she caused in the others mattered not at all.

  She felt the emotions and thoughts of the knights swell around her like a rising tide.

  She had no w ish to intrude upon their privacy, and she gently allowed herself to rise above the unfocused sea of thoughts.

  When this talent had first manifested in her as a child, she had been unable to control it, and had been terrified by the endless barrage of thoughts that had intruded into her mind. She had learnt things that a child should never know, having inadvertently eavesdropped on the darkest thoughts of everyone she had come into contact w ith. It had been maddening.

  One day she had begun to cry, for she could hear the thoughts of the young maid that delivered her meal.

  'I am sorry that your baby died,' Anara had said, and the maid had stared at her in horror. Witch, she heard the maid think, which had confused her.

  Around that time, she had first begun to see glimpses of events that had not yet come to pass. They had scared and confused her.

  'Don't ride the big grey horse tomorrow ,' she had begged one of her father's knights at a banquet feast on the night before a tournament, 'you w ill fall off it and you w ill die.'

  The knight had laughed at her fear, as had the gathered host of courtiers, but Anara w ould not be consoled.

  'Have no fear, little one,' the knight had said, propping her on his knee and looking into her serious face. 'I have ridden Proudheart a thousand times, and he has always borne me w ell. I w ill not fall from him, I promise.'

  It w as not, how ever, a promise that he could keep. The powerful grey had been spooked by a sudden movement in the crowd, and had reared. The knight had fallen backw ards and struck his head against a rock. He had died instantly. Anara's father had turned fearful eyes tow ards her when he learnt of the incident.

  Freak.

  The thought had stung her, and she had begun to cry. Calard had hugged her tight.

  She endured his embrace, for she knew that it gave him comfort.

  Her father had been relieved w hen the Enchantress had come for her. She had felt the fear emanating from her father and his knights as the Enchantress strode into his hall unannounced and unchallenged, and she had secretly revelled in seeing the men cow ed so.

  That first meeting was forever ingrained in her mind's eye. Ethereally tall and as slender as a branch of w illow, yet radiating such power that the breath w as stolen from Anara's lungs, the Enchantress was at once the most beautiful and the most terrifying creature she had ever seen. She was the highest authority in all of Bretonnia, greater even than the king, for she spoke w ith the voice of the goddess.

  Their eyes had met across the hall and in that instant the Enchantress had known her: everything that she w as and everything that she could be. Anara's fear had dissipated like a fog in the rising sun. It was replaced by joy and yearning, for in those moments she realised that she was no freak and no w itch, and that her powers w ere not a curse; far from it, they w ere gifts from the Lady. It seemed as though she stared into the Enchantress's almond-shaped eyes for an eternity, sharing a silent communication, before the silence had been broken.

  'I am taking the girl,' she had said, turning her ageless gaze tow ards the Lord of Garamont. 'From this day forth she is no longer your daughter. She is a child of the Lady. It may be that you w ill never see her again.'

  Lutheure had nodded his head, unable to form w ords, as if stricken mute. Then the Enchantress had extended one graceful hand to Anara, and she had heard her voice, though her lips did not move.

  Come w ith me, Anara. Become that w hich you are destined to be. You are not alone any more.

  Anara heard Calard speaking to her, and she focused on him, drawing her mind back from the past. They seemed like memories that belonged to someone else, for she was no longer the same little girl she had been.

  '...you doing here alone?' he was saying. She did not need to be able to read his thoughts to recognise the awe, and the fear, in his eyes as he looked upon her.

  She ignored his question, eyes narrowing as she felt... something. Her gaze drifted up into the sky, searching. Something was w atching them. She could feel its rage, its need for vengeance. At last, her roving gaze focused on a single black bird that circled low above them.

  CALARD STARED AT his sister blankly, and then followed her gaze. He saw the carrion bird circling overhead.

  'What is it?' he asked, seeing a look of horror come over his sister's delicate features.

  'The beast w atches. It hungers,' she breathed, her voice fey and distant. Calard's brow creased in confusion. What w as she speaking of?

  'The bird?' he asked slow ly, not understanding.

  'It must be brought dow n!' she said, more urgently. Her voice was strained, and something in it made Calard feel suddenly fearful. He swung around, shouting to the yeoman nearby.

  'Half a copper-crow n to the man that brings dow n that bird!' he hollered. The men stared at him blankly
for a second as his w ords sunk in, and then they scrambled to retrieve their bow s.

  'What's going on?' asked Baron Montcadas, throw ing a quick glance tow ards the damsel Anara.

  'I don't know ,' said Calard. Anara was staring intently up at the carrion bird.

  The first arrows sliced through the air, missing their target. The bird continued to circle, oblivious to the threat, and one peasant gave a shout as his arrow clipped the raven's w ing. It dropped in the air, and black feathers began to spiral tow ards the ground, but it did not fall. At last, an arrow slammed into the creature's body, and it plummeted tow ards the ground like a stone.

  Whooping and yelling, the yeoman ran to w here it fell, and the bew ildered knights follow ed after Anara, who hurried across the field in the wake of the bow man. The man's triumphant cries stopped short, and he froze as he stood over the dying bird.

  The arrow head had passed clean through the raven, which was impaled upon the shaft of the arrow . It w as not dead, and was trying to right itself, flapping its wings uselessly, its cries piercing.

  The bird's head w as cocked to one side and dominated by a bulbous, pulsing bloodshot eye that w as far too large for its head. The pupil was like that of a cat's or a serpent's, and the flesh around the orb w as blistered and bare of feathers. It w as a loathsome mutated thing, and Calard felt his gorge rising. The repulsive eye flicked around, rolling in its fleshy socket, focusing on each of the figures surrounding it in turn.

  'Kill it,' ordered Baron Montcadas. Nobody moved. 'Now !'

  The yeoman, his face a mask of revulsion, brought his foot down heavily on the dying raven, cutting its cries off abruptly. Delicate bones crunched under his foot, leaving a bloody smear on the ground.

  'What w as it?' Calard breathed, horrified.

  'The eye of the beast,' said Anara. 'It has been here before, long ago.'

  'What?' asked Montcadas. 'The beasts of the forest?'

  'It comes for us now !' said Anara, her voice suddenly urgent. 'We must aw ay!'

  'Aw ay?' asked Montcadas. 'If the beasts come, then w e shall fight them, lady.'